


Colourless

by Idontwritefanficx



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-22
Updated: 2015-05-22
Packaged: 2018-03-31 18:42:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3988651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idontwritefanficx/pseuds/Idontwritefanficx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Was he falling, or was he flying?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Colourless

**Author's Note:**

> So this is basically just angst and it could be upsetting I don't know so read at your own discretion I guess.

 

### Poppies In July

Little poppies, little hell flames,  
Do you do no harm?

You flicker. I cannot touch you.  
I put my hands among the flames. Nothing burns

And it exhausts me to watch you  
Flickering like that, wrinkly and clear red, like the skin of a mouth.

A mouth just bloodied.  
Little bloody skirts!

There are fumes I cannot touch.  
Where are your opiates, your nauseous capsules?

If I could bleed, or sleep!   
If my mouth could marry a hurt like that!

Or your liquors seep to me, in this glass capsule,  
Dulling and stilling.

But colorless. Colorless.

 

-Sylvia Plath.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The air was cold. It was air that bit and grabbed and snatched your breath away like an invisible thief. The wind swirled and gushed, causing a certain young man's hair to blow around untidily. He was sitting on the edge of the roof, his feet dangling over the side, waving carelessly over the grimy city below. Car horns blared like a swarm of wasps and the din of angry traffic meant that even a hundred metres up in the air, the man was not really alone.

 

But he felt it.

 

The man's name was irrelevant up here, gazing down at this dark and dirty city. He was no one. Nameless. Faceless. He was a powerless god, his judging eyes carefully tracking the movements of the empty people living their empty lives below. But maybe he wasn't a god. Maybe he was an angel. Perched on the rooftop, capable of flying away and doing good in a cruel and heartless world. If he was an angel, he could go to heaven. But he wasn't an angel, and he wasn't deluded enough to convince himself that there was anything waiting for him after he died.

 

His back ached from leaning over and a shiver traced its way up his spine as a particularly spiteful lick of wind danced over his frozen skin. He was wearing jeans, a t-shirt, a hoodie. Nothing suitable for a cold December evening in an icy city. But for some reason, he loved the biting cold that clung and whispered around his bones. It made him feel hollow. It was strange, wasn't it, that he could crave such a feeling? He felt the numbness clouding his mind and his thoughts and he loved every bit of the horrors he felt growing and thriving inside his head. Why was he addicted to his own destruction?

 

He wasn't sad. He wasn't depressed. He was nothing.

 

He shut his eyes like he used to shut the curtains at night. He breathed in deeply, the smoke and chemicals whirling down his throat like a vortex. He felt the Earth turn on its axis. He thought that if he opened his eyes he would see how fast his world was turning, but with his eyes closed he could pretend that life was standing still, even for a little while. He wondered if anyone would miss him if he died. His brothers and sisters, maybe, but he was fairly sure they would just be relieved they wouldn't have to worry about him anymore. They had enough problems already without having a crazy brother to be wary of all the time. Would they be glad to have him gone? One less mouth to feed. Because that's all he ever was, really: a stoic being eating their food and using up their hot water. It would be better for them if he was gone. It would be better for everyone.

 

His family were flawed, broken, selfish. They were strong, loyal, loving. They were cruel, angry, scared. They were clever, brave, joyful, beautiful, good, evil, calm, psychotic, kind, dangerous... They were good people. They were bad people. They were walking contradictions.

 

Maybe nothing is really black or white, good or evil. Maybe everything was just grey.

 

The city was grey: walls and walls of broken concrete, unending streets and muted colours. Hollow people and dull street lights. The sounds of the city were blurry and slow, stretching, elongated, twisting, growing, freezing, crawling slower, and slower, and slower...

 

A burning tear traced its way down the broken man's cheek. It smoothed over his cracked face and soaked into his icy skin. It sank into his bones and turned in ice around his heart. A breath of desperation was sucked out of his mouth violently. Had he forgotten to breathe?

 

He thought of the dark haired man he used to love. He thought of racing down alleys and rough shoves and aching laughter. He broke that man. He had taken the man's shining soul and carved his name into it and smiled as the blood oozed darkly from it like red paint softly dripping onto a white canvas. He watched as his sins cut and scarred that man, the wounds never healing: because healing means forgetting, forgiving.

 

The man on the roof would never be forgiven.

 

But maybe he could be forgotten. He slowly got to his feet, wobbling precariously on the edge of the roof. He eyed the ground and the tiny hopeless figures meandering below. His heart thundered and pounded leaving bruises on his ribs and bruises in his mind. He choked back wracking sobs and his head span like a wind vane in a storm.

 

He could go either way: jump off the roof and soar like a fiery comet plunging down and down into the frozen land below, or he could gently lower himself onto the level ground beside him and walk away unharmed. He could always kill himself another day.

 

But it would be so easy. So easy to fall. So easy to end the pain and numbness.

 

He cleared his mind of all thoughts. He forgot about his family, his friends, his past loves. He thought of nothing. He felt nothing.

 

Maybe it was time to feel something.

 

He raised his arms and the wind got louder like a train rushing towards him. It forced the air out of his chest and pounded against his brain. His vision was white with startling reds and melancholic blues but he saw none of them, only grey, only a lack of colour. Everything moved fast, too fast. His clothes rippled and billowed in the rushing wind and everything was loud and fast and spinning spinning spinning and rushing and hurting and falling and crying screaming louder and louder and louder until-

 

 

He felt nothing.

 

 

 

He felt everything.

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Wow that was angsty. I think I like it though idk. Thanks for reading anyway :) let me know what you think!
> 
> on tumblr at fade-away-tonight <3


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